father, can we talk?

The silence was maybe for a second or two but it felt like forever. He looked over. Too fast. His father felt the gaze, looked over and smiled. On his hand fell a bigger hand. One that squeezed. Warmly. If he was freed then, he was a god now. Outside, the evening sun shone dimly. Red light punctured the sky. Horns pierced through the thick smog. Nothing broke through the heavy traffic. Hand on his hand, this was new. But it was so nice. It was so worth it.

The man smiled at him. His heart jumped, bounded over hills made of joy, and kissed cotton candy clouds flavored with happiness. It was worth it. This was nice. Had his father ever approved of anything he had done. Sure. But it was all verbal. This physical approval, it was nice. He imagined what a genuine hug from the man would feel like. The back of his head tingled with anticipation, and joy, and just the thought of it. His right eye twitched. He rubbed a knuckle in it, closed it, opened it again. Still looking at his father. They were the same height, if anything, he was taller, and yet, it felt as if he were looking up at the man. It felt as if he were twelve. He wanted to be. 

The car hummed along slowly. The driver was unaware of the emotional earthquake that was happening in the back seats.

A few moments of silence.

Eternities of bated breath.

In that brief period before his father spoke, there was peace. Anxious peace. There was Before and then there was After.

And he spoke.

Shattering the silence as screeching shatters glass.

“I think we should go to the therapist.”

ok…

That wasn’t the issue, not really. The issue was that he felt that they could not communicate without a moderator, a stranger present. The issue was that he felt that he could not share with his son, sure it was hard. Sure it might take a lot of courage to speak. But his son did it, couldn’t he?

Inside him, the doves had shed their pretty white costumes, and turned into red birds, into carrions, into scavengers, birds that feed and thrive on death and war. Inside him, a war raged. Ares was awoken, Poseidon was boiling the seas, Zeus was lighting up the skies. Inside him, Hades was rubbing his hands together gleefully, ready for the destruction that would follow. Persephone shook her head next to him on his throne of bones, she who would see her crops, her children suffer and burn. Inside him, there was a war.

He fumed. In silence.

Inside him, there was a conflux of emotions, all seething, all boiling, some burning rage, others spiralling sorrow. His eye twitched. His ears felt numb, his head was throbbing with pain. A vein in his neck throbbed. He swallowed.

He blurted out, one last dich effort to salvage the situation, “but she’s only a moderator. The conversation has to be between us.” and this man, whom everyone considered smart, who seemed to see things in business that no one else did, the same man did not get the message. He just wanted to talk to his father. The father did not understand.